Day 16 Davidson’s Linn to Kirk Yetholm. Not far now…

My tent was not well pitched; trying to find a level spot that wasn’t a swamp and with a water supply (other than bog water) had to compromise somewhere and that was on the flatness. The sides on the inner were sagging inwards on an already cramped space. This was OK for sleeping but when it comes to getting up and dressed, trying to avoid touching the freezing damp nylon with bare skin is impossible.  It was only when I went to unzip the outer that I realised just how cold it had been; the flysheet was frozen to the consistency of stiff card. No wonder I was cold; and I only had my summer sleeping bag. Oh well, think of the weight saving.

Campsite at dawn; yes that is frost on the ground.

Badly pitched, it was worse inside.

 I warmed up with a breakfast of porridge and dried fruit and a cup of Earl Grey and then packed up and was back on the trail by 8:00.

 

Wainwright described the walk from Byrness to Kirk Yetholm as “a long hard walk, damned long and damned hard”.  That was describing the full walk but nevertheless it had been a hard day yesterday and I still had 12.5 miles to go.  I was aiming for the hut where Sean had spent the night for a mid-morning break.  At least this morning I had the trail to myself but the mist rolled in and I could see nothing other than the bog beneath my feet.

I arrived at the second hut at just after 10:00 and ate a large slice of Sly Pie, purchased from a wonderful cake shop in Bellingham. I had never heard of Sly Pie; I would probably have called it Fly Pie; basically currants in a sugary filling in flaky pastry. That shop also did massive marshmallow biscuits that looked like home-made Wagon Wheels that really were as big as your face; they looked heavy though.

As I sat on the hut balcony (that maybe an exaggeration, front deck perhaps) a farmer passed by on his Quad bike, which was a surprise, given where we were, miles from the nearest farm on the top of a wide grassy (aka boggy) ridge. He was very friendly and commented on what a fine morning it was before his phone rang and he answered the call.  He was up here to gather in his cows to take them down to the valley. I watched as he called them to him offering them the clearly popular feed from the sack on the back of his bike. Once the cows realised what he was carrying, he had a job to stay ahead of them; stampede! To be fair there were only about a dozen of them and I guess anything is better that standing knee deep in bog trying to find some grass amongst the heather and sphagnum.

By now the mist had cleared and I had a view. I could see the sea!

View from the Cheviots. The North East coast is just visible on the horizon.

One final climb over The Schill, which Wainwright thought was the most attractive summit in the Cheviots, and then it was more or less downhill to Kirk Yetholm. There was a choice of routes; the high level route, slightly longer or the low level route, which was more direct and involved less climbing. I took the low one on the basis that I had seen enough hills for a while.

 

The sign says Kirk Yetholm 4.5 miles.

The final walk into Kirk Yetholm was about 2 miles along a road. Road walking is never pleasant with a heavy pack but I was struck by the number of roadside seats there were along the way. These were either privately dedicated to an individual or provided by Kik Yetholm council to celebrate this or that. I don’t know whether the seats were deliberately there to provide respite for Pennine Wayfarers or whether the locals just like to walk out of the village and sit and take in the views.

 

The road leads to the village green and the Border Hotel. The hotel is the official end of the Pennine Way.  However, it may be the end of the Pennine Way but I also learned that it is the start of The Scottish National Trail, all 470 miles of it; I could just carry on!

The Border Hotel, Kirk Yetholm, official end of The Pennine Way.

We are camped at the campsite in Town Yetholm which is about half a mile up the road and I arrived at camp at about 1:30. After sorting my gear and showering in the smallest shower cubicle I have ever had the misfortune to be in, we were entertained by the owner trying to get his new sit on mower (a John Deere, no less) into his shed. John Deere was a bit too wide for the shed.  Shed and shower cubicle have something in common, I think.  It is also one of those campsites that is still in the 1970s, with no hot water for washing up and signs all over the place about what not to do; including no washing up in the toilet block and no taking of hot water from the toilet block to the washing up sink. This clearly irritates the owners and yet they do not see the easy solution; happy to charge the going rate but not provide the currently expected standard.

 

We both returned to the Border Hotel and had a rather fine meal in their restaurant. We had the works, 3 courses plus port. I had a beer called The Pennine Pint, brewed by Tyneside Brewery and it was very good, a pale hoppy beer just as I like it. I liked it so much that I had another.

Now we are off to Dunstan Hill, on the East Coast near Alnwick, for 3 nights before heading home.  Dunstan Hill is a mile from Craster, home of the Kipper apparently.  Not sure Gloria will thank us for cooking Kippers but maybe we could cook them outside weather permitting.

So, that’s it. Done. Wainwright’s last words on the matter say that I will be a better man for having walked the Pennine Way. Not sure about that. I certainly enjoyed it and couldn’t have done it without my support team.

What next?

AW